Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about five months after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; 27 Kab, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Aboard Tranquil Knight, On route to Kal-Tor, forbiddenspace (outer sphere)

Ship's condition: All fast and well supplied

I have been somewhat remiss in keeping this log, but Fosterling has not moved from her perch abaft the great ballista in many days. I have some few topics to rhapsodize about, but perhaps I should begin, well, at the beginning. We came into what the locals style “the lightning roids” under power, guided by a secretive Yuan-Ti. His services were produced by the inducement of one of the limpid crystal wands with negative energy affinity. We undoubtedly overpaid, but they were looted, and I have little enough use for the things personally.

The Lightning Emporer's fortress is a large asteroid, almost entirely mined out, and covered with strange brass and iron towers apart from a pair of massive doors. These doors conceal a massive hangar and drydock, behind which lies a labyrinthine maze of tunnels and rooms, one of which is an odd sort of prison where our quarry is being held apparently. The towers seem to somehow harness electrical impulses, and transmit these impulses one to another at seemingly random intervals. Many of the smaller asteroids have similar structures, though hardly of the same size or frequency, leading me to believe they are part of some sort of magical defense.

I had been somewhat less than fully engaged in this endeavor to date, but upon learning that the poor girl is to be sold into a sort of slavery, I have now committed myself, and thus my ship and crew. I note that the people of Brindol have allowed these “seven dread lords” to remain in power very close to their controlled area, and given the size of their fleet there can be little doubt that some arrangement must exist. Regardless of that arrangement, or potentially in spite of it, it seems that the natives fully intend to go through with the plan. Perhaps they feel as I do, that the girl should have the right to choose amongst her own suitors, or perhaps they just wish to gain favor with her father (who is apparently the master of a major shipyard).

The extent of the wrighting capacity of Arc Station still staggers me, doubly so now that I have learned that the ships are not being sold to Kal-Tor, I wonder where all that production is mothballed. There could be quite a fleet hiding somewhere unless I miss my guess. Perhaps that is how they turned back the Imperial Navy, but that many trained crews would take time to train to the level where they could effectively battle a naval assault group. I suppose that is why almost the entire surface of the planet is held off limits.

Regardless, the fact is that there are precious few ships present here, and almost all of them seem to belong to the lords. This lack of transportation has caused the locals to construct long bridges of massive cabling between each respective rock. The constant presence of electrical discharges against the tenebrous backdrop of the void lends the webway of bridges an aesthetically pleasing aspect, but one which I may have disturbed for a time.

In an effort to gain some useful intelligence, I had intended to loan a magical device which creates an illusion to greatly enhance any personal disguise to whomever volunteered to scout the point of ambush. Unfortunately, while the disguise worked well enough, the specific nature of the Brindolite parasite seems to preclude effective stealth. Eventually, Kalahari gave up on the concept of covert reconnoiter in favor of the other monk heading over in disguise.

I feel I must pause here for a moment to explain that the locals she was to impersonate are known as fanatics, and tend to wear heavy bands of brass and iron on each limb, along with heavy metal belts, cloths to cover their loins, and precious little else apart from copper jewelry pierced into their flesh at various points. I turned aside after handing the hat of disguise to her. I do not know what I was thinking; elves are seldom puritanical, and she certainly has a lovely form. Part of me certainly wanted to observe her loveliness, even though I am well aware that it would have been merely a glamour, but after some consideration, I have concluded that what my grandfather once told me is the absolute truth. There are some things which must only be taken when offered

None of that prevented me from viewing from the distance, however, because I did not wish to risk that she be overwhelmed and we unable to assist. As it turns out, there was a significant risk which resulted from her instigating a battle between guards on either side of one of the larger bridges (apparently between two rival territories). Things continued to escalate until, when the dragon arrived, I felt that the danger level had reached sufficient pitch to intervene. Aragog teleported a number of us behind the guards from the rival faction, and we dispatched them with some limited difficulty. A surprising number of them were spellcasters, and all were well armed warriors. Later we were to find that they were present to guard a massive bomb composed largely of blasting powder and military oil. We discovered this only as a result of my using the mithril chime to open their bunker. What I had taken for a fairly normal chime of opening is clearly not, as not only did it open the door, and all the containers within, it also unfastened belts, armors, and even simple clothing for a massive area all around it. It's power was so complete that it was able to unbind the very bridge cables which held our asteroid to the rest of the webway!

Needless to say, the route by which our target was to travel will no longer be in use, so we have all retired to Knight to consider alternate plans. I fear our only remaining option will be a raid against the fortress itself. Fortunately, in an effort to procure plantlife for Knight's garden, we rescued a so called “fanatic” who is anything but. This disgruntled gardener not only procured for us an exceptional supply of seeds, fertilizer, and good earth, but also seems to know somewhat about the internal workings of the fortress. It is my hope that he will know something which can aid us in evacuating the poor girl to safety without being captured ourselves in the process. Assuming that I am ever able to update this log again, I will outline the events of that potentially fateful raid forth with.

Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about five months after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; 19 Kab, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Aboard Tranquil Knight, On route to Kal-Tor, forbiddenspace (outer sphere)

Ship's condition: All fast and well supplied

I am extremely glad that I hired a mate to help me explain the fundamentals of wildspace to my groundling companions. I would have never credited that the wraps the followers of the fist employ to protect their hands would be enchanted to spontaneously burst into flame! Fortunately, that surprise was not an issue, since the mate had previously taken time to expand on my expositions. In future, I must attempt to make these meetings less lecture and more interactive I suppose, else much may be lost.

None the less, we successfully negotiated the short phlogiston passage to the outer sphere of forbiddenspace. Not one of the groundlings gaped overmuch at the sheer mass of the sphere wall. Apparently, they are unmoved by such wonders! On attaining the outer sphere, however, I was able to find a dark mirror to the marble customs citidel near the opposite portal. This structure is more obviously intended for war, boasting heavy reinforcements and numerous siege weapons. One of them was a bombard larger than our entire vessel! The dockmaster there informed us that the asteroids do, in point of fact, orbit a star, just apparently a dim one. I suppose it is largely invisible in the same way a single candle can be from across a forest.

The Dockmaster was a dwarf, and came aboard in full battle gear for reasons which will become clear shortly. After ascertaining that we intended no threat (and informing me that no maps of the asteroids were to be had anywhere), he went on to explain that the station was expecting an attack within hours. Offering our assistance (with the concept of capturing a navigator foremost in my mind), our small vessel was stabled in an internal hangar, and we went forth to the aid of the dwarves. Their defensive strategy placed us to defend the very docks we first tarried at, though whether this was due to mistrust or need I can not say. What I can attest, though, is that I was very impressed with the prowess of the groundlings. I am aware of Bron's puissance, and was fairly unsurprised by the catfolk's natural grace, but the swift alacrity with which they dispatched what appeared to be nearly a hundred skeletons defies description.

The undead were packed tightly into barrels, and apparently animated on the spot with some sort of magical rod. The rod interfaced with some sort of crystals worked into the interior of the huge barrels, each of which emanated waves of energy when crushed. We salvaged several, so when I have the opportunity, I intend to investigate one further. Also captured were two assault barges, each composed largely of stone, and driven by unpowered mechanical devices similar to what the Krynnish Mnomi call “screw-propellers.” Each was crewed by a number of archers and warriors, apparently to support the undead.

The various hand fighters were all over the docks, engaging the archers, warriors, and magi simultaneously, while the more traditional warriors seemed intent on chopping the skeletons for kindling. I was more than a little impressed with a pair of fireballs from the warmage, but slightly less so when I realized that several allies were caught in the blast. Still, it's hard to argue with that level of success I suppose. Perhaps it is my fault. After all, it's likely that none of them have had any experience in coordinated shipboard tactics. Quarters are much closer in wildspace, so timing and cooperation are much more important than may be planetside.

I was gratified to see one of the groundlings make good useage of the gravity plane, though I have my doubts as to how many of them noticed the secondary assault traveling beneath the docks. Still, I am somewhat pleased with the rate of learning displayed by most of them though; for groundlings they are adapting nicely.

On a more personal note, I was shot in the chest with a blunderbus, and nicked by a second shot. This is, obviously, somewhat offputting. I summoned a fog bank to cover me from the attack, but it makes me wonder how and why I was specifically targeted. Given that the scro ship had boxed skeletons onboard, I wonder if they are in league with these asteroid pirates.

Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about five months after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; 2 Kab, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Towed behind Tranquil Knight, On route to Kal-Tor, forbiddenspace (outer sphere)

Ship's condition: All fast and well supplied

I already regret leaving the barge behind at the shipyard, but am unwilling to return for it, and my former employer can well use it in my absence. The space could have been well used, I think, regardless of how it would impact our maneuverability. I have taken a short flight in an attempt to assay the virtues of Fosterling's new helm and controls. To date, I have few complaints. After a few maneuvers designed more as an attempt to familiarize the groundlings with where they will be in the way of the crew than any fault with the crew themselves, I have tethered a line, and am currently under tow.

As I gaze at my new ship, I feel compelled to speak about her. Her foreverwood inner hull is thin, like all such craft, leaving somewhat more room in each cabin. I have had few complaints about my adjustments, and little doubt, for I have employed many elven techniques as well as some tricks learned in obscure areas. On her main deck, the overly large captain's cabin I have surrendered, and replaced with a large lounge (The attached tail compartment is currently empty, but has an open top to host a sizable garden). My own cabin is in the room which traditionally hosts the helm (it more than suffices for my needs, and when I wish more space I have Fosterling; The helm, in turn, now resides on the lower deck, in the room normally used by the helmsman as a cabin. Moody, our primary helmsman, does not sleep, though the small room directly beneath the new helm room is assigned to him as well. The crew occupies the traditional cabin, along with the female passengers, while the artillerists and most male passengers occupy the room which normally hosts the galley. The upper deck has been fitted with a series of channels which feed into a small cistern partitioned off of the small room off of the companionway. That partition is repeated on the lower deck; a ceiling valve and ceramic basin creating a functional shower. I fear I can not claim complete credit for this innovation, as it mimics something I saw in the home I rented on Brindol, but the bravest portion is mine, namely the channels. I have placed bars of iron in them at present, but when we are close enough to spheres I know I intend to replace them with blue ice. Each time I cast a spell of fog to revivify the air, the moisture which normally causes so much trouble will flow down the channels into the cistern. It already functions marginally well with the iron when I also cast a spell to chill the metal, but it is a fearful waste of spellpower without the blue ice, and my amulet is far too small (and far too precious) to use in such a manner.

The main hold I have removed the central decking from. The support spars still remain, of course, but the effect is one large area with gravity bisecting it. The area gained by so revealing the stowage area is hardly worth the effort, but it saved me a considerable sum in building materials; foreverwood is expensive! The deck of the aft hold was raised somewhat, and a passage made to the lounge. This was largely done because I have installed a jettison there. While they are hardly the strongest weapon, naval life has made me accustomed to using the jettison to dispose of ship's waste, and the convenience to both garden, galley, and head made the positioning ideal. Beneath the jettison, on the stowage level, is found the head, as well as such of my not inconsiderable library as is not lounging under my bunk. I have already discussed with the crew the dire consequences of damaging any of the valuable tomes. Secretly, it is my hope that many of them will learn something, as they will certainly spend time there regardless. The mid-hold I have assigned as a mate's cabin, and have extended it somewhat towards the aft hull.. Gloval, the elderly officer I hired as mate, has commanded line warships in his time, and deserves the chance for some privacy. On the stowage level below him is the room I have called the solarium in my mind. It includes the area normally used for light stowage beneath the mid-hold, but extends all the way to the aft wall of the vessel (next to the head, though I have been careful to seal the walls there well). I reinforced the bracing in that area so that I can remove a section of the hull and replace it with a dome of enchanted glass. It may well be that I will substitute the kind of heavy crystal often used in other ship hulls, but I feared to damage Knight's seaworthiness too greatly. Now that Fosterling is powered again, I may soon choose to take that shortcut, and use her as a shuttle for water landings.

The other, and most obvious, alteration I have made is also the simplest. I placed a large lamp sphere atop the forward keel. The ship does not need the light to stay alive, but it will be useful for the other purposes I learned in the navy. The lack of a need for a sunlamp did get me thinking though. In many ways I am worried about what I will find when I have delved deeply into the lore concerning the foreverwood. It regrows rapidly. It needs no leaves, roots, or water. It is precicely like dead wood, but somehow alive regardless. Too much it reminds me not of endless life, but unlife. I think that the most disconcerting aspect of it is that it does not breathe. When I served aboard Flyer, I would often go out to lie on her livesail and feel the slow cadence of her breath. Aboard Sorrow's Fist, Sophie taught me to feel the rhythm of the spellship's lifecycles. I came to know how to influence the vessel to be eager and spry, or torpid to conserve supplies. I confess that I feel my time with the dryad was too short, but it was all the time she had. War brooks no delay.

Remembering the early days of the war has made me mindful of what Bron told me. He and Umber somehow took up the gauntlet with no common orcs. The “orcs” they fought were, in point of fact, a prince of the scro homeworld and his honor guard! Fortunately, the constabulary smiled on the struggle, about which I still know precious little, and they were each awarded the chance to take an item from the scro ship as reparation. Umber took a diamond the size of my thumb (which I recon to be worth enough to purchase a small ship), and the catfolk took a smooth sphere whose surface is reminiscent of the phlogiston. Bron, on the other hand, has showed his quality at last. He brought to me the charts of the scro captain! These enchanted maps are penned in the language of angels, which I do not read, but with magical aid I have little doubt that I can make good use of them.

Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about four months after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; six days after vernal equinox, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Aboard Tranquil Knight, On route to spherewall, forbiddenspace

Ship's condition: All fast and well supplied

Much has happened that has been faithfully recorded in Tranquil Knight's journal. She is a lovely ship, based on the Wasp design so often used by lizardfolk, though modified to include some of my own innovations. Her crew is hired, her christening (expensive though it turned out) over, and her course set. Moody's helm is aboard her, which would have left Fosterling powerless had not Moody procured an ancient helm from somewhere. It is a massive wheel, dominating the deck nearly to the ceiling. The ancient thing is weak; reportedly it strains to move even a dragonfly, but for Fosterling it suffices. Unlike more modern helms, it seems to drag even the smallest scrap of power from the user, be it from spells, psionics, or what have you. While it does, it produces only power enough to keep the vessel moving at the slowest speeds, regardless of the potential of the helmsman. It does, on the other hand, move the ship, so I must conclude it more than serves it's purpose. Moody has somehow enchanted it to interface with Fosterling's living wings in such a way that a spin of the wheel actually manipulates the livesails, potentially allowing someone like me (with both the spellpower and seamanship skills needed) to easily handle her alone. There remains the dark rumor that a week of extended use will cause the helm to explode, but I highly doubt a shuttle will see enough use to test the issue.

While we are currently underway, before Tranquil Knight was christened and launched I met with an unlikely ally. He claims to be of a bloodline which mingled with the mercane in generations past; I believe it unlikely, but he knows much, and is willing to share that knowledge for a price. I met his price, though in a way that will not endear me to the admiralty, and learned much. Apparently, there is a plane of void, and the judge I seek is there, still alive! It is my assumption that this plane of void is the plane described as “quasi-elemental vacuum” in some texts, or at least is related to it in some way. I have misgivings as to how we will survive once we arrive there, so for now my plan remains unchanged: sail the sea of night, and earn the trust of the locals myself. The blue sage also answered many other questions, as well as providing me a volume supposedly containing all the music of the local people. Normally, I would have balked at the concept of an entire world's music in one volume. In this case, however, I believe. The city of Brindol may well contain all the sapient life on that world; and they are a folk devoted to law, not art. At the least, I can easily compare the two songs I already know against what is contained in the volume; I am well capable of finding the common threads between songs with study.

For myself, I have decided to continue this log. It may well seem as much journal as log, but I have discovered that I no longer care. I need expiation. I saw today the appearance of a native without glamer. Her eyes are no less green; her hair still like to flames. She has lost none of the grace of her movement, none of the fierceness in her spirit. With the enchantment stripped asunder, her beauty is not stripped away, but revealed. I am not enchanted, but I remain fascinated, and more than a little relieved. I somewhat fear the reactions that such beauty will receive from the space born community at large, especially those associated with the chainmen.

There is a further distress I must attempt to aspirate. Amongst my people I am too young to marry. There, those of my age are considered trapped between childhood and maturity, a brief span of years in which one has set aside childish lessons but not yet taken on the responsibilities of hearth and home. Despite my youth, I feel old. Elves are long lived, and my people doubly so. The company of men serves to remind me that my short years exceed those of any man. I swim in manfolk. There is something endless in the folk of Brindol, but there is also something new. Their society is so sheltered that I was forced to explain slavery. Not the logistics of it, the very concept behind it! Now, when I think on how to safeguard my charges, my mind reels with the magnitude of my task. I have with me a number of people who have not the faintest sense of danger; children that have yet to be burned. The responsibility is heady. Yet I can not treat them as the children they are. Each is a potent combatant, and full grown after the fashion of manfolk. Not one will thank me for my interference.. While many elves debate the maturity of even old humans, I have discovered that they live their short years in such a way that the wisest of them surpasses our greatest lorekeepers. I risk being seen as arrogant if I speak too much, and I risk being seen as profligate and false if I say too little. As my grandfather once put it, “I fear the crust of this snow will not support my weight.”

Still, I am grateful for the presence of my newest crew acquisition: an anthropomorphic feline from Toril who studies the way of the fist. While I know little of him, the catfolk have ever been allies of the land which I serve. The ally of my ally is, in this case, at least a hope for friendship. Bron and Umber (another recent hire) apparently met him while dusting up some orcs in the alley. I was later to find that he was admitted to the surface without any delay, and came back shining like a native. I do not begrudge this, as I increasingly believe that the shining glamer of the natives is in some way related to the mysterious “children of forever” which grant the foreverwood it's name. I much desire that they learn I am no foe to them, so I welcome as many as come. The catfolk is slightly impatient, but focused on finding the lost judge, so our purposes meet nicely. I am extremely pleased to have someone aboard who believes at least that much of my tale.

Wildspace in the forbiddensphere is placid and cool, and I am grateful. Once we pass the customs station, my intent is to head to the asteroids of Kal-Tor. Apparently named for a mountain range on one of the former planets of the outer sphere, these seven large bodies host the tacit lords of the asteroids. One of the natives has determined that there is some sort of bounty for rescuing a princess held near there, and while I suspect that it is more dalliance than kidnapping, the action should serve to whet the crew. Hopefully it will also quell the nerves of some of the more aggressive passengers. I fear that the long voyages between spheres will test the patience of some. I also look forward to purchasing some green for the ship. A few berry bushes and other assorted plantlife would help me to feel better I think, having been denied the green when I visited Brindol. The foreverwood does not suffice for me, despite the rich green color it has absorbed from the special dye we applied. (It turns out that there are rumors of monstrous phlogiston creatures which are attracted to livewood which is not so treated, and I had little desire to put it to the test).

Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about four months after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; vernal equinox, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Standing off of Arc Station, forbiddenspace

Ship's condition: All fast and well supplied

It is difficult to know where to begin.

Nearly three months passed before I was allowed to the surface, but it was worth the wait. The city of Brindol has massive rock walls, though whether they are designed to keep visitors in or dangers out I have yet to discover. Perhaps they serve both purposes. While on the surface I met a number of locals. A psion claiming to be a high admiral of the fleet had a conversation with me, and inflicted me with some form of geas against pursuing my plan to inform the local government of the demise of Geoffrey, their ambassador (titled only “judge” locally). Stymied in this respect, I resolved to ignore his demand that I bring a parasite back to Lionheart.

I suppose I should begin by stating some of what I have found out about forever trees. Apparently, they are truly immortal. All foreverwood comes from these massive trees which are hacked off ten or so feet above the root, and regrow rapidly. The undistilled sap of these trees is some kind of healing salve, the bark is tough enough to fashion into plate armor, and the leaves are useful in any number of herbal admixtures. Knowing any of that is grounds for severe punishment on Brindol. They seem to hold these trees as sacred, and little doubt! There seems to be some sort of immortal dryad like creature which lives in them. From what I know, these creatures can form a sort of parasite which lives inside a mortal shell in what would be a symbiosis similar to a tween apart from the potential to kill the host. I admit that the details are sketchy at present, but I have held one leaf in my hand, and even just the leaf gave me a sense of age and vitality.

All of the locals seem to have absorbed some of the incredible life force of these amazing flora. Those who travel into the forest seem to shimmer and sparkle. More disturbingly, they are often blessed as though they drank of Hanali's pool. For the first time I began to understand one mystery of the Seldarine; it is possible for a creature to be so beautiful that it becomes difficult to care that they are of the same sex. I found it difficult to avoid staring, and I am afraid it was a battle that Bron lost before he began to wage war. At any rate, I rented a cottage in town, and entertained three of the locals, brawny warrior, a psionic archer, and a slender swordsman. Each of them expressed interest in seeing the spheres, and as only one had even traveled as far as Arc, I offered to be their guide.

The following day I saw her. Strong and supple, she moved with the grace of a dancer, but the ease and lack of wasted movement that only comes to most from decades of practice. The previous day I had counted all of the locals beautiful, most especially the archer (who even hid his features from the other locals so as not to cause difficulties). I was mistaken; there is no other woman. I can still see her shift on her chair, muscles sore from her training under the black cloth of her robe. I nearly reached to touch her, right there in public. When a battle took place between the so called “high admiral” and a local warrior, I nearly didn't notice. In fact, I was so enraptured that had the warrior not started emitting the same type of “unlight” that destroyed my entire fleet I might not have cared in the slightest. In hindsight, I likely should have done something to help him, though what I could have done without being either cast out or slain escapes me. Still, he was a fellow elf (unless he was lying about that too), and we of the Navy do try to take care of our own.

When I mentioned to the others that he was, indeed, an elf (why I could not say), they all expressed surprise, whereupon I told them of my own race. In my wonder at my new companions, I had nearly forgotten entirely that I was in disguise. While most of them were only mildly surprised, the monk took great offense. To be honest, I had assumed that she could likely see directly through the weak disguise. I had taken pains to be certain that I still retained my own general appearance, just disguising my elven heritage and naval uniform. My face still looked similar, my skin still pale and slightly blue like all those of my heritage, and my frame slight. Still, she was upset, and her anger was like a blow to my spirit. Somehow it made her more beautiful. I remained calm, despite her aggressive wordplay, not through any diplomatic skill so much as because I could scarcely even entertain anger against such radient beauty.

I think I must give some background on my life so that you, gentle reader, can truly appreciate the full magnitude of my meaning. For two generations of men I have known beauty, and run in the rain with slyphs. I know the heart-breaking beauty of the ice princess , and I have seen the skydance of the avariel. I have played while the winter court waltzed, and slept in the arms of a dryad. Of all these mythically beautiful women, there is not even one who would not blush for shame were they to stand beside her. There is a legend shared by the priesthoods of many goddesses of love and beauty of a font of enchanted water called “The Evergold.” This legend states that one drop of water from this fountain will smooth any scar, and one sip will restore youth to the most wizened of ancients. I think that if a goddess were to bathe in those waters, she still would not turn my eyes away.

So you can imagine that I was somewhat sobered when she calmly stated that should I lie to her again she would kill me.

I had gone out of my way to make my disguise easily penetrated by the eyes of the local constabulary, and kept my own features to boot. I have no desire to cause trouble for these people, despite the apparent desire of some within the admiralty to conquer the planet. In fact, my current plan is to fashion a slightly larger ship, hire a crew, and take all of them on a trip to explore the spheres. I can show them many wonders I have witnessed, and we can discover others together. A decade or two hence I will again bring up my desire to learn more about their sacred trees. By then I hope that they will know me well enough to understand that I bear no ill will towards anyone. Perhaps I will travel past the war orphanage. Old Bess, the half-orc who runs it now, will remember how I made her tiny ships to play with when I was ship's boy on Emerald Champion and she a small child. I will certainly take them to see my home. It has been some time since I have been back, and there are few sites as beautiful as the bloodfalls of the great glacier on any world.

So that is the precarious position I am in. I have lost the trust of the woman whose eyes haunt my dreams almost before I had it. In fact, she went out of her way to become part owner of the new wasp-class ship I will be constructing in the morning. I have yet to actually work with foreverwood, but I have seen enough that I should be up to the challenge. In a worst case scenario, I can deconstruct the vessel and allow the lumber to “heal” back to it's initial shape before trying again. I normally wouldn't bother, but it is hard for me to even consider denying her something within my grasp. My only concession is a secondary hull composed of more conventional wood to conceal the nature of the vessel. I have little fear that most will understand it for what it is, but there are factions in the navy, and a naval gardener will not fail to see how unusual foreverwood is. Bron agreed to hire on some sailors, and I will be recruiting an artillerist team at some point as well. Fosterling will lose her helm until such point as I can find a suitable replacement, the only one available at this point being Moody's.

Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about a month after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; 17 Vis, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Standing off of Arc Station, forbiddenspace

Ship's condition: All fast, clean, food supply low

Travel through the sphere was uneventful, apart from Bron's recovery. I worry that I am rapidly running short of berries to enchant to sustain us, but I have included a spell to freshen and restore the ones I have remaining in my daily regimen. With some luck, that will be more than enough. As it turns out, Moody is, indeed, a construct, albeit a living one. I hadn't noticed at first, but weeks of familiarity have made me certain that he can be numbered amongst the construct soldiers of shardspace known there as “the warforged.” Because he is tireless, and I think partly so as to get us to our destination and unload us for a day of peace and quiet, we have traveled under power on all watches, with me taking two watches on the helm each day and him four. Bron is well enough to provide some small companionship now, so Moody has stopped speaking at all (other than to complain quietly when I play the lyre or harp).

On reaching our destination, I decided not to dock at Arc Station. The one bollard Fosterling requires would force me to open the war chests I salvaged from the fleet. While they are technically my funds, either under salvage laws or as the only remaining officer of the fleet, I am loathe to spend the Admiralty's money when there is no pressing need.

The station it's self is massive. The city is built atop a huge stone arch, nearly a mile long. This arch dips down at either side as if to embrace the massive plateu on the surface below. I am assured by locals that the dimensions precisely match the land feature, which is staggering. I don't know how tall it is, but it is clearly visible from here, despite the cloud cover. From all I can tell it might be half a mile high or more! In ordinary circumstances I would fly by handsomely, and attempt to get a better gauge; unfortunately, local regulations preclude any ships from even brushing the edge of the sky. In fact, on the subject of regulations, I have taken the liberty of procuring a set of scrolls listing the local laws, which are counter-intuitive at times, and stiffly enforced. Apparently the local constabulary is composed entirely of monastic warriors who have studied magic. It's a little bit chilling to realize that there are five orders of such warriors, all of whom apparently live in the twin citys of Arc station and Brindol. I have met one such constable, whom I found cold but civil, and would not wish to be across a skirmish from him.

Arc city is as cosmopolitan as any I have witnessed. My appearance in naval uniform received a somewhat marked lack of welcome, but no attention whatsoever was paid to me once I purchased an illusory disguise, despite the constant presence of Lumiranta, a small but wise air elemental who has been my companion for years. In fact, while purchasing my disguise I was surprised to see a massive elemental arguing with a merchant! My affiliation with the Imperial navy and race disguised, I encountered no further issues, and procured passage to the surface for both myself and Bron, though at great expense. There is an extensive wait, as only a finite number of visitors to Brindol are allowed at any given time, but I have the time, and greatly desire to see the “Trees of Forever” I have heard so much about.

Because it is likely to be some time, I set about to find useful work. Not wishing to play either my newly acquired enchanted lute nor my salvaged Elfharp in a city so obviously hostile to elves, I took employment in a small shipyard known for it's custom work. There are dozens of such yards, as well as three large military ones, so the local navy is quite impressive. Between the large clan of dwarves which guard what appears to be the only entrance to the sphere with their massive flying citidel and this massive fleet, it is small wonder that they were able to repel a concerted attack, even from an Imperial battlegroup. Any larger vessel would be forced to navigate a sunless sphere filled only with twilight and the shattered remains of destroyed planets, pass two massive and over-gunned citadels which guard the portal between the two spheres (which are held close together by some maddeningly potent power), and only [i]then[/i] fight this rag tag but numerous defensive fleet.

I myself recall bypassing the other sphere entirely, primarily due to the small size and maneuverability of Fosterling. We were able to do what the locals call 'running the crack,' which I normally would have marked as too dangerous, but compared with a months long journey through a dark sphere filled with undead, pirates, and orcish refugees during which our food supply would run out half way, I felt it the better option. Still, there was precious little room to maneuver, and navigating betwixt those black crystal walls for several hours without flinching tried my concentration.

I still sleep on ship most days, and Moody has yet to step one foot off of her, but Bron has likely become something of a favorite with some local doxie or another, and is often absent for days at a time. He must have found gainful employment as well, as his share of the salvage remains untouched in the hold. I have learned a great deal working at the shipyard. The yardmaster is strict but kind, and has learned an appreciation for my talents. As an outsider I am not permitted to work with foreverwood, but I have watched others do so, and it appears to occupy the same niche locally that adamantine does amongst the arms and armor folk. Nearly always milled thin, it is none the less used for framing and hulls of naval vessels, as well as for private yachts for local citizens. The yardmaster himself is fashioning a vessel which has a strong resemblance to the legendary Spelljammer itself, though much reduced in size; I guess twenty to thirty tons. The wide manta-like wings will act as sails when flexed by a sophisticated winch and pully system. I do not imagine it will maneuver easily, but the system should be extremely durable at least.

For my own part, I have been studying the books I salvaged from the fleet wreckage. I find it disconcerting that one of the orcish ship's logs is written entirely in mostly fluent elvish. I have heard that a race of orcs naming themselves “scro” follow this practice so as to best understand their enemies. As their implacable brutality was evident throughout the latest series of skirmishes, I find myself glad that they perished with the rest of that fleet. On the other hand, one of the other tomes I recovered has turned out to be something special. Apparently belonging to the same person the lyre did, it helped me to uncover one of the secrets of that wondrous instrument, namely the fingerpicks stored in a small secret compartment. The compartment only opens when specific chords are struck, and those chords belong to a lullaby native to Brindol! While the book itself seems to be merely sheet music, it is mildly enchanted, and will not change pages until one plays the song shown on the lyre. After the turning of a few such pages, the book shows that it has an area cut from the center of every page, the missing portion used to store a mithril chime. Unless I am greatly mistaken, it is a chime of opening, though it may well be ready to crack. I suspect that the chime may repair itself when encased in the book, but have yet to try my hypothesis. It is too beautiful to risk until I am in a location where I am confident a craftsman could restore it, as they customarily shatter when their magic is expended.

Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: on or about yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender, 4 Yana, year of the toad in local reckoning.

Position: Teatherdocked, customs citidel, forbiddenspace

Ship's condition: neet and trim, clean and well supplied.

This will be an exceptional first entry, but then circumstances have made Fosterling an exceptional vessel. Her story begins with the destruction of Effulgent Matron, a fleet tender and lightship under my command. As Captain-Adjunct, I was not initially privy to the details of the fleet's mission, and frankly I prefered it that way. Lightships are fleet support vessels, not warships, and Matron was no exception. She was my ship, however old, bought and paid.

I came aboard her as an unrated youth near the end of what is now called the “Second Unhuman War” (though the reason it is known by that title is a mystery to me, for there were a number of men on my ship alone), and purchased her when I retired (the whole of which is a tale I may append to this log entry, but the circumstances of which compelled me to take on the mission in which she perished). The mission she was on at the time of her destruction was to support a naval fleet on a diplomatic mission to a remote sphere known only for it's "foreverwood" ships.

The diplomat, a monk and arcanist named Geoffrey, was a native of Brindle (also known ominously as “the forbidden planet”), and was returning home to smooth over some bad relations that flared up over an attempted invasion by the Admiralty at some point in the past. Unfortunately for us we were intercepted by a massive fleet of thirty or more humanoid ships, mostly scorpions. Badly outnumbered, even Matron was pressed into line combat. When both Majestic and Starchild (Both Armada-class carriers) fell, The fleet admiral decided on a desperate course of action. He took his burning Man-O-War, Constance into close contact with the core of the opposing fleet using the remaining flitters as a screen; once there he activated an enchanted rod.

From the wreckage of Effulgent Matron's splintered quarterdeck, I watched as he strode out to the fron of his vessel, the rod seemingly drawing in all light to itself like some kind of anti-star. Shortly thereafter, what appeared to be a massive sphere of annihilation grew out of it until it came to be almost a hundred meters across, at which point it began to somehow suck things in. It was like a sort of bottomless hole of blackness hanging in space, devouring all the air and most of the ships and wreckage from both sides, though due to Matron's comparative fragility, she was destroyed earlier, and thus further out, sparing my life. All that remained of both fleets was the aft bulb of Constance, most of the port wing of an armada (though whether it was Majestic's or Starchild's I could not say), and a sizable collection of wreckage and corpses.

On further examination, one of these corpses was Bronan, one of the human mercinaries, but he was so close to death that only his musclebound thick-headedness allowed him survive until the next day when I regained enough power to heal him. My worries about my own survival turned out to be more than a little unfounded though, as the Admiral's Helmsman, Moody, turned out to be a sort of construct who survived the deadly atmosphere, and managed to escape with the helm intact. All of which brings me to the crux.

Amongst the salvage from the battle I discovered an enchanted lyre of building! The skills I learned helping to craft ice racers as a child assisted me here, and I was able to play the lyre for just over two hours without missing a note. The resultant combination of my two disparate skills was a new mosquito, whose frame was crafted from beams pared from the man-o-war, hull composed of planks from my own quarterdeck, and wingsails grafted from pieces of the armada's wing. I even managed to salvage enough legs from the scorpions that I was able to cobble together more or less proper landing struts! Thus equipped with ship and helm, we set off to at least make the attempt to carry out the mission, or at least inform the leadership of Brindal that their envoy had perished. I armed the mosquito to the teeth, embedding an orc ballista in the bow, Constance's jettison aft, and took onto the top deck two more ballista and a catapult from Matron's complement.

Flying no flag, and armed to the teeth, I felt it unlikely that any would make an attempt on us now that the orcs were out of the picture locally. Using charts salvaged from the wreckage, I plotted my course as directly as possible, even coming in between two closely placed spheres in a fairly dangerous maneuver, then heading to the customs station where a gnome called only “Skippy” who was good enough to assist me in navigating the local bureaucracy. There are exhaustive laws with harsh penalties, and no slack was likely to be given to an elf in any event, so I kept my head down, merely buying a meal and this tome to use as ships log (apart from paying docking and examination fees of course).

The allotted birth time is almost up, and I am the only sailor onboard, so I will include other details in my next entry.